Total pages in book: 116
Estimated words: 118042 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 590(@200wpm)___ 472(@250wpm)___ 393(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 118042 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 590(@200wpm)___ 472(@250wpm)___ 393(@300wpm)
“How many?” I asked, itching the beard on my bruise-filthy face and twisting my forearm, testing to see if the broken bone beneath my cast had knitted.
“Twenty-seven,” Peter said, his voice mostly dead. “Twenty-seven nights since that bastard threw us in here and forgot about us.”
“Oh, he hasn’t forgotten.” I flinched as I forced myself to sit upright. I needed to piss, but the thought of shuffling to the toilet, even as close as it was, drenched me in cold sweat. Yesterday, I’d gone to use the facilities and came to as cold as a corpse on the ground.
Ily’s face had been streaked with tears as she kneeled on frigid rock, her fingers reaching for me, her neck bleeding from where the collar cut into her as she fought the chains to get to me.
I never wanted to do that again.
Not because it’d taken me twenty-four hours to feel somewhat alive again but because I didn’t want to scare or hurt her any more than I already had.
What must it be like for her, seeing me this way? Filthy and broken? Fighting to stay alive, all while being far too weak to save her.
Don’t answer that.
Dropping my gaze, I gathered my scratchy blanket tighter.
My black shirt and trousers had been sliced in places for the doctor to apply the cast to my arm and ankle. A few buttons had been torn off in the fight, and the stench of unwashed sweat and pain added to my never-leaving headache.
Christ, stop it.
Get yourself together.
You’re alive.
Focus on that and only that.
Lifting my chin, I didn’t say a word as Ily carefully tucked her calendar-marking pebble under her thin pillow and lay down. Huddling into her blanket, she looked across at me. Her lips tipped into a lovely smile. Her golden eyes a little brighter as if we’d all decided to be a little better and pretend to be a little stronger.
Peter stood and stretched. Working out the kinks in his thin body, he padded toward the toilet and vanished behind the wall.
We might not be able to see each other, but we could hear. While he emptied his bladder, I did my best to speak over the splash by repeating the phrase Ily had told me yesterday. “Let everything happen to you. Beauty and terror. Just keep going. No feeling is final. Rainer Maria Rilke.”
She reached for me. Her hand so far away.
I reached for her. My fingers tingling with the need to touch.
She’d started forcing me to remember poetry and affirmations, making me promise to play along so she could be sure my concussion wasn’t killing me.
“And the day before yesterday?” she whispered, tucking her untouched hand beneath her cheek and sighing.
I struggled. Without the sun, it was so fucking hard to follow time. The lingering concussion didn’t help. Fighting back the last dregs of confusion, I whispered, “Love consists of this: two lonely people who meet, protect, and adore each other. Rainer Maria Rilke.”
She shook her head softly. “Love consists of this: two solitudes who meet, protect, and greet each other.”
“Oh.” I shrugged. “Well, I prefer my version.”
“Me too.” She nodded with a soft smile. “I’m so glad your mind seems to be healing as well as your body.”
“I’m sorry for making you so worried.”
She winced. Tears glimmered. “I’m just glad I haven’t lost you.”
Glancing around the dungeon, I couldn’t hide my fury. “I wish I could get you out of this place.”
“Same.” She gave a sad little shrug.
“Why do you know so many of Rilke’s poems?” Peter asked as he returned from behind the wall. Gathering his and Ily’s meal, he placed a tray by her feet and the other on his pillow.
“My father.” Ily flinched as if the memory caused her pain. “He’s a massive poetry buff. He says Buddha lives in sonnets and songs, not just scripture. That the truth of love and life are often found in the proverbs of pretty words.”
“Your father would get along with my mother and aunt.” Peter bent over Ily and kissed her cheek before climbing back onto his bed. The chain stopped jingling as he settled. “My mum even writes poetry herself.”
None of us reached for our food. Enjoying the anticipation of filling our empty bellies rather than the agonising wait for more once it was gone.
“Does she live in Leeds too?” Ily flipped onto her stomach, cupping her chin so she could study Peter. “Can you remember any of her work?”
“Nah.” Grabbing his blanket, Peter whipped it around his shoulders like a cape and sat cross-legged. “I’m not much of a reader myself.”
Fuck.
I wasn’t prepared for such a simple sentence to gut me.
What I wouldn’t give for a book.
A single page from a manuscript.
A paragraph of words that could allow me to escape this place, if only for a moment.
“Henri…” Ily’s soft voice lifted my eyes to hers.